


All Too Common

by De Orakle (Delphi)



Series: All Too Common [1]
Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Drama, M/M, Race, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-04-24
Updated: 2000-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:18:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/De%20Orakle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which secrets are kept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Too Common

He blamed it entirely on the heat—all too common for this time of year, if the locals were to be believed, but ungodly all the same. The sky-high temperature dried him out and set him on edge to the teeth, sparking in him a certain restlessness, an irritated temper that he found himself to tired to cast off. His entire body itched against his clothing, sweat soaking into the fine fabric even in the dusky shade of the saloon.

A single bead of sweat trickled down a ticklish path from the band of his hat, tracing its way down his cheek. It felt like blood as it dripped warm and heavy into the corner of his mouth. He twitched but didn't brush it away; lessons-made-instinct held, and he refused to move lest his discomfort be mistaken for doubt in the five cards he held.

Suddenly, a stiff breeze skirted over Ezra's sweat-cooled skin, raising gooseflesh. He stilled, letting his gaze casually drift toward the mirror behind the bar. The reflection showed the source of the draft: the swinging saloon bat-wings. Ezra shivered despite himself, his hands faltering almost imperceptibly for a moment. A familiar silhouette framed by the orange glow of sunset stood in the doorway.

Ezra held his breath.

One, two, three...

He dimly heard the rest of the table placing bets. His throat flared and he took a sip from his glass, licking his lips afterward.

Four, five, six...

Nathan's eyes met Ezra's in the mirror for a moment before scanning the rest of the saloon and making his way to Josiah and Chris in the far corner, oblivious to Ezra's eyes glued to his back and backside every tempting step of the way.

"Well?" The easterner seated across from Ezra tapped his cards impatiently against the tabletop.

He returned his attention to the poker table, regarding the portly, sunburned dandy with a gaze so cool it all but steamed in the heat. The man subsided with a frown, and Ezra glanced back at the table and his drinking comrades. In profile, Nathan was leaning close—uncomfortably close in Ezra's opinion—to Josiah. Ezra's gaze lingered as a good-natured grin split that lush mouth.

Gorgeous.

Dangerously, unattainably gorgeous.

Heat-addled and lovesick, Ezra Standish did something wholly unknown to a man holding a straight flush:

"Fold. I do believe I'll call it a night, gentleman. It's been a pleasure."

To stares both suspicious and relieved, Ezra collected his winnings, meager though they were by his own standards considering he'd played for less than an hour. The folded bills disappeared in the blink of an eye as he straightened his cuff.

He stood and eyed the empty chair at the corner table, then glanced up to find Josiah looking steadily back at him. With a hidden movement, the preacher nudged a chair back from the table in silent invitation. Ezra swept his eyes over the others; Chris gave him a friendly nod and a quirk of the mouth, but Nathan did not even deign to look his way.

With a polite tip of his hat and a sinking heart, Ezra inclined his head to the negative, excusing himself. He turned his back and climbed the stairs to his room, alone.

It was notably cooler upstairs, though that was akin to claiming the third circle of Hell was much balmier than the eighth. He abstained from lighting the lamp, heading for his washstand in the half-light and filling it with precious water from the tin bucket at the stand's base. He dipped a flannel washcloth into the lukewarm liquid, and, removing his hat, let the water trickle down over his face.

When he opened his eyes again, it was to meet those of his double's in the looking glass. His reflection scowled back at him, eyebrows drawn together in displeasure at what he saw. The heat had begun to tighten the limp waves of his hair, and in the falling light his sun-kissed skin was darkly shaded. He thought he had forgotten what his father looked like.

His lips twisted into a self-deprecating smile. Now there was a topic that would interest dear Mr. Jackson, and Ezra might have laughed right then and there had it been another's misfortune. As it was, he put his back to the mirror and the matter.

He shrugged off his jacket and hung it up neatly, followed by his cravat, waistcoat, and shirt. The sheen of sweat on his skin now met the warm air and he sighed contentedly, allowing his mind to wander in peace as he performed the perfunctory tasks of separating his cash into the various hidden pockets of his jacket; tucking a roll of bills into his boots as he removed his footwear; winding his pocket watch as he assured himself he had five hours remaining until his leg of the nightly patrol. He replayed the last few minutes in the saloon in his mind as his hands moved out of habit.

_Nathan leaned close to Josiah, his whole body relaxed, grinning in a rare unreserved laugh._

Ezra sincerely doubted that the preacher appreciated the closeness, the scent of the other man, sharp and musky in the heat, with a strong underlying smell of medicinal liniment. He shivered again despite the warmth as he placed himself in Mr. Sanchez's place, Nathan's larger body leaning over him. His herculean imagination filled in a thousand tiny details: hot breath against his cheek, the crinkling in the corners of the good doctor's sleepy-looking eyes, the aura of their mutual body heat meeting, merging, welcome even in this hellish heat.

His body in its naivete reacted accordingly.

Ezra shook himself out of his reverie, a chiding snort escaping him. Fantasy was becoming an all too common activity for him out here where even a brief business transaction with a lady of the evening could be common enough knowledge to tarnish his gentlemanly reputation. He found it distasteful to be a servant to his body's baser needs—perhaps because of the weakness to which it intimated, perhaps merely a holdover from the numerous beatings he'd received from his aunt when caught in self-abuse almost daily during a stay with her in his thirteenth year.

A wheedling, persuasive, and increasingly familiar voice piped up inside his head:

'If you're planning to partake in the hotel ablutions later, you might as well make it worth your while...

'It'll relax you enough to find some sleep in this cursed heat...and perhaps you'd awaken refreshed enough for a quick game of cards before patrol...

'After all, it's not as though the object of your affections is too likely to lend you assistance in relieving your tension...'

He had to laugh as his mind conjured up a picture of that last one. 'Yes Mr. Jackson, I seem to have a bit of a swelling that just won't go down. No, it doesn't exactly hurt when you touch there...'

His chuckle deepened into a frustrated groan as the aforementioned afflicted area took further interest in the thought of a healing touch. He sighed, crossing the room to remove a shaving towel from his wardrobe. If he was going to surrender to this lapse in his self-control, he would at least relieve himself in a tidier way than rutting against his mattress like a beast in heat. He stripped down, taking time to crease his trousers before hanging them up.

The feather mattress sagged beneath him as he flopped back on the bed. He spread the towel lengthwise over his stomach and lay back with his hands folded under his head. He closed his eyes. Trying to summon a little encouragement, his mind conjured the sweetly smiling face of Li Pong, her lithe body, her hands uncertain but wonderfully earnest, nothing like the strong, sure touch of a healer's hands...

No.

He would not think of Nathan—it was unfair to him, sitting just downstairs, innocent in his morals.

Just downstairs.

The thought failed to provide the intended effect, and Ezra squirmed. One hand crept down to his belly. It wasn't as if Nathan would ever know.

Absurd as the scenario was, Ezra's mind drifted back to little dialogue he'd imagined involving his "medical condition." Feeling faintly ridiculous, he allowed the impromptu fantasy to unfold like a play in his mind.

He took a deep breath.

All right.

So he was lying in the clinic, the lamps low. The heat of his actual surroundings crept into his fantasy, making a fresh prickle of sweat break out all over his body.

Nathan's hand trailed down Ezra's chest, detachedly at first, clinically. His fingers probed lightly at Ezra's sides as if seeking out a broken rib. The warmth stopped to lie over the left side of Ezra's breast, feeling the steadily beating heart beneath his palm.

Ezra's hand drifted over his body in mimicry. 'Getting romantic in your old age,' he chided himself, but couldn't help getting even harder when he pictured Nathan's dark hand against his skin.

"Does this hurt?" the healer asked in his comforting bedside tones.

Here, there were no need for ambiguous verbal tangles, and Ezra merely shook his head. "No...it feels better."

"How about this?" Nathan rubbed the palm of his hand against the underside of Ezra's erection, up...down...up...down...the heavy vein just under Ezra's sensitized skin was traced with delicious delicacy, pulling a whimper from his throat.

"Better still," Ezra whispered desperately, his hips arching up into the tightly controlled touch.

The heat in his room was palpable, tangible even as Ezra's own body temperature rose. It was easy to imagine Nathan positioned over him, leaning close with whispered words and bold presence. It was easy to imagine that it was indeed Nathan's hand wrapped around him. Too easy.

A sly glint entered the chocolate brown eyes, a playful laugh tingeing Nathan's voice as he whispered, "I know just how to make you feel better." And with that, the dark head ducked down to engulf his patient in the most pleasurable of sins.

Ezra's breath grew ragged as he stroked himself, drawing his foreskin back and forth over the head of his cock. Warm, wet, slipperiness—almost the perfect emulation of a smooth, hot mouth. Almost.

Nathan steadied his blind thrusts with strong hands, pinning down the flexing thighs he'd settled between. His talented mouth continued its attentions, the suction just light enough to keep Ezra on desperation's edge.

The still-functional—if slightly fuzzy—analytical corner of Ezra's mind sulked guiltily at the subservient position in which he'd cast the man. But not guilty enough to stop his steady stroking.

'Besides Ezra, old boy, it's not as if you wouldn't drop to your hands and knees and service Mr. Jackson any way he wanted should he give you the slightest notice.'

All thoughts of being the one in control fled from Ezra's mind as Nathan began to roughly stroke him.

His hips working fluidly into his double-fisted grip, Ezra's legs trembled; his back arched as he pushed his shoulders into the mattress. His breathing hitched. He licked his lips, again, again, biting down as he teetered on the edge of spilling his seed. His feverish mind burned with the image of Nathan's handsome face, that wide, sugar-sweet mouth dripping white cream.

It was enough to send him over the edge, a choked cry echoing through the room as he shot, moaning a long, low moan.

He lay still and limp for a handful of minutes, half-dozing, the sound of blood rushing in his ears. Eyes closed, he held on to the brief tear in reality that almost deceived him into believing that the heavy heat he felt was the warm presence of a sated lover. He shivered, raising his right hand to his mouth and absently licking away the few bittersweet drops that had splattered onto his skin. He yawned, shivering again.

The room had darkened to near-impenetrable shadow. The coolness of a desert night was rapidly descending.

Groaning wearily, Ezra sat up and cleaned himself off before balling up the towel and tossing it in the vague direction of his washtub. He dressed, selecting a new shirt, cool and clean.

He carefully washed his hands in the washstand, scrubbing until the soap burned his skin, hoping to be rid of the smell of sex that seemed to linger on his fingers.

Dressed, and clean enough to bathe, Ezra sat down heavily at the edge of his bed. The edge had been worn off now, physically at least, and he was now thinking clearly enough to be disgusted with himself. He didn't bother to tell himself it wouldn't happen again. He knew his thoughts would soon return to Nathan, that they would never really leave him. He didn't bother to rail against the injustice of it all, that the one man with whom he was unable to hold a civil tongue was the one who'd captivated his mind, his body, his heart. The odds were not in the gambler's favor, considering that the dear doctor would most likely always regard him as just another silver spoon-fed confederate bigot.

If Nathan knew the truth, would it change a thing?

Reaching under his bed, Ezra felt blindly over the dusty floorboards until his hand found a small metal box. He set it on the bed and slipped its key out from where it was bundled with string underneath the bed-frame. From the box's various paper contents, he removed two from the bottom, setting each on the mattress and examining them carefully.

The first was a photograph, taken only a few months prior, when that talented dime-novel author had been in town and Ezra had managed to snag this particular shot in return for an "exclusive interview."

Pictured in gritty gray were Nathan and himself. They were outside the saloon in Purgatory, arguing about what, he couldn't quite remember. It was blurred with motion, which was why Mr. Steele had been so amenable to part with it: Nathan's left arm was outstretched in some emphatic exclamation, and Ezra was leaning toward him. Their faces were plain, though—Nathan's head was angled downward, Ezra's tilted upward—deceptively close together. Were it not for the anger in their body language, one might imagine they were about to kiss.

Ezra brushed the photo gently with his thumb before replacing the paper beneath a nest of receipts, IOUs, and hastily scribbled addresses.

The second rectangle of paper, he held delicately in the palm of his hand. It was a gray-scale print of a painting commissioned by his mother in Ezra's childhood. The print was heavily creased, smudged after more than a quarter century of hidden travel, yet Ezra knew its every secret detail by heart.

In the foreground of the image, seated in an ornate Louis XIV high-back chair, was a very young Maude Standish, not much more than a girl and dressed to the nines in the latest New Orleans fashions. Beside her, in a perfectly fitted little three-piece suit, hands folded politely behind his back, was Ezra Standish, aged five years. His hair was curled even tighter back then from the humidity of the city, his skin a permanent tan, but Ezra smiled to see the obvious resemblance between himself and the little child straining to look solemn. The artist, though faded now into obscurity, had been quite talented.

Ezra's gaze then traveled to the background of the picture to the two figures standing against the townhouse wall. Marietta and Benjamin Carter, elder sister and younger brother—his mother's maid and his own "manservant" respectively flanked mother and son a few paces back. Ezra felt a pang of regret that the original painting had been disposed of all those years ago. Marietta's striking Creole features, so prettily portrayed in oil, were mere grainy outlines in the yellowed print. And, most regrettably of all, there was no commemoration in the charcoal lines of how Benjamin and little Ezra's eyes had sparkled in identical shades of summer green.

Shaking his head, Ezra returned his most prized possession and burden to the box, and then made ready to head to the hotel.

He needed to get clean.


End file.
